Will the Real Joker Please Stand Up?
by arthuronfleck
Summary: Arthur's changed, and so has Gotham. As Arthur Fleck languishes in the confines of Arkham, his status as a symbol for the downtrodden lives on. When another clown of the same name attempts to seize the streets, he finds his every maneuver overshadowed by those of his predecessor. The Joker resolves to establish himself as a solo act.


Time meant something once.

It was a cruel, unrelenting force that brought with it infinite melancholy and the promise of worse things yet to come. It was the pendulum that kept the monotonous rhythm of life, and though the only thing Arthur dreaded more than time was memory, there was a comfort in the steady cycle of day and night. No such thing existed in Arkham. In Arkham there was only consciousness and unconsciousness, and sleep meant little to Arthur, whom spent his waking hours in the same place, seeing the same unfriendly people, only knowing the world as what he could see from a narrow window. Even his dreams lost substance. A part of him would laugh inside, and wonder if anything had changed at all. The rest of him wept, knowing how much things indeed had changed, and how he loathed himself for not leaving when he could. He didn't have enough life within him to attempt anymore.

Such thoughts came between rounds of medication switched out before he could even know the names, although he knew the titles of each to be longer than the ones that came before. He'd been used to such a rotation but eventually it reached such a magnitude that it was unmanageable even for him. Eventually Arthur could peek beyond the haze, knowing it was more of a tranquilizer than a treatment. A particularly enthusiastic doctor meant something once, though Arthur couldn't recall their name or why they'd meant anything at all, or even why they disappeared. Had they existed at all? Likely not; every time he thought of them, they had a new face. Whenever Arkham switched hands- the only guarantee of Arkham being that it _would_\- a fresh batch of goons would appear, bloodthirsty and ready to enjoy the benefits of working in a place so desperate for bodies it would entertain any proposal, so long as it kept its inmates out of sight. That's when the shocks would start, met with roaring laughter that almost sounded like applause. It felt like he was on stage once more, so eager had they been to watch him squirm and scream and tremble until a warm trickle ran down his leg. Every time. Theirs were the faces he remembered with perfect clarity.

People had roamed the halls once, and Arthur would listen eagerly from his bed, curled on his stomach with his eyes closed. Now only the grunts roamed and when they talked it was only to one another. Arthur laughed for a long time, until he too grew silent. Everything was silent for a long time. Then all at once the world came alive. Sounds of people unlike anything he'd encountered before, like all of a sudden there was so much happening the place seemed to always be bursting at the seams. It seemed like the world remembered Arkham, but it was inconceivable that it would remember him as well. His name felt more like an abstract than an entity. None of it was enough to bring Arthur Fleck back from the dead, and so he lingered in the confines of catatonia.

His body leaned back against the cinderblock, his dull green gaze set on the barred windows adjacent to the stiff bed. It offered a limited view of Arkham's crumbling brick exterior, a sight so familiar his insides would relish any miniscule change. It was raining again, rhythmic pitter-patter against the window that'd developed a frosty film. It must've been winter.

A pair of lanky legs crossed in their loose confines as Arthur's cuffed hands rested in the center. He watched blackened rain droplets make their way down the frozen window, nothing in particular playing in his mind. Did he see snow? No; it would be slush at best by the time it hit the ground. What did the grounds outside of Arkham look like? Looking down, he could see only sterile linoleum. He couldn't recall anything else. His world began and ended between the same four walls of concrete and linoleum, with a cold metal door added as a fun addition. There was no need for a mailbox anymore; anything belonging to him found its way through the small slit in the door that only opened from the outside. Not that he received anything beyond pills and lukewarm food.

Sometimes he felt something, but it was awful enough that he'd cry to feel nothing again.

His head hit the cinderblock with force and once more as he choked on air. Then he heard another shove, more forceful like the closing of a door. And again. And again.

A deafening silence fell over the place and Arthur felt at peace to loosen his posture.

Rustling came from the other side of the metal door, like someone fumbling with a string of bells. It felt more like unreality than anything in recent memory; how long ago had he been sentenced to waste away here in utter solitude? More likely than not it was another inmate being summoned, perhaps even released. Or to be poked and prodded like lab rats. Better them than him, at least. But that wasn't the case.

That wasn't the case at all.

The door opened with a slow, prolonged creak. Arthur blinked. When his eyes opened the door remained ajar, and when he squeezed his ankle it was there too. He thought to summon his voice as he sat upright, hesitating. If this was a trap, he wouldn't be the one to fall for it.

* * *

The all-white uniform of Arkham's staff that seemed nearly impossible to differentiate from that of the residents. However, neither inmates nor their reluctant keepers donned spatters of blood below the knee, and that was enough to put Arthur on edge. His brows knitted as a tightness grew in his chest, his fingers digging into the white material of his own scrubs. As his eyes lifted, he grew only more puzzled; a man of a tanned complexion, tall with a far more solid frame than Arthur could boast of, a pair of dark eyes—

—and nearly jumped out of his skin.

It had the face of a man, at least mostly. The top half, with its heavy brows and dark eyes, stood out only for the vibrant green hair that framed it. It felt familiar. But as Arthur's gaze lowered to take in the rest of him, he noticed protrusions about the man's mouth. Raised flesh starting at the corners of his lips, stretching all the way to his cheeks. Arthur's face contorted at the sight, lightened only a little when he noticed the questionably large gun half-hidden behind him. Arthur had never seen anything like it, and that much was painfully obvious.

He spoke without meaning to, strained and sick.

"Kill me."

The man's face contorted just as Arthur's had, and a dismayed grunt let him know that it would at least take more than a pained request.

"Please."

"Get up." His voice sounded more like a series of disjointed growls, confusing Arthur even further.

"I don't know what—"

"_UP!_" Any semblance of patience seemed to burn out as he barked, gesturing the gun towards Arthur. The man pleading to be shot mere moments ago gave little in the way of a reaction to the threat.

With another glance through the corridor, the man paced towards Arthur. If fear could genuinely grip him, in that moment it edged dangerously close. Not that the encounter would end with his death, rather that it would be a slow and horrific journey to get there. Then again, what had his life been if not horrific? A swell grew in Arthur's throat as he struggled to vocalize to someone, anyone, what he'd endured for the past eternity—

The barrel of the gun collided with his head and he slumped over.

* * *

Arthur awoke to a peculiar sound. Maybe not an unusual sound at all, but something so distant and unfamiliar it might as well have been brand new. It took awhile for the world to become still enough to make sense of what was being said. When it did, he heard everything through screeching echoes and saw slivers of color through two large windows on small doors.

"_...In other news, U.S. forces have concluded a massive missile strike in Afghanistan in hopes of crippling the country's forces and driving back insurgents…"_

The words didn't register, like meaningful words strung together to create something he couldn't comprehend. He tried to roll over onto his side, grimacing in pain as he did so. Every time he tried to think a throbbing pain rang in his head. A muffled cry escaped his lips as he tried to bring his knees to his chest, the taste of something heavy and metallic growing stronger with every pained inhale.

"_...in response to the attacks several months ago Some are criticizing the States' continued involvement and the president himself, citing needless damages to civilians and military personnel—"_

Arthur heard a sharp _crack _against the dashboard on the other side of the partition and the sound quickly scrambled.

_"__Gotham residents are praying for a Christmas miracle to alleviate rising tensions in our city. We may be waiting until next year's elections until we have someone who can curb these freaks and wannabe gang-bangers. Abnormal really is becoming the new normal__—__"_

"_Shut up!_" An irate growl sounded from the driver's seat, and Arthur couldn't tell who he was shouting at. Either way, he ceased whatever movement he was attempting and merely gritted his teeth.

The sounds changed once more, to a song Arthur had never heard. It was noisier than anything he would've listened to, hard as it was to recall what he enjoyed. His eyes focused on the blurring lights as they sped past. How long had it been since he'd seen color? Everything moving too quickly to discern but he couldn't remember ever seeing a world so vivid. He could see little in the area he occupied, besides all the glistening of the cold metal in the moonlight. He could hear cars all around, and plenty of honking.

"_Oh, baby, don't care no more...I know this for sure,"_

Arthur took a sharp turn with the car, crying out as the restraints wore against his sore wrists. He shot a frustrated glare at the partition, deciding then if his life was forfeit he would decide what to do with it. Outstretching his already sizable legs, he began to kick at the metal doors of what must've been a van, growing louder with each gaining ounce of lucidity.

"_People, they don't understand...Your girlfriends, they can't understand,"_

"Hey, hey!" For the first time, Arthur's rescuer seemed to speak not with aggression, but barely-restrained laughter. "If you knew where we're going, you wouldn't be in such a hurry to get out!"

"_On top of this, I ain't ever gonna understand—"_

The radio shut off as soon as the van came to a screeching halt. Arthur heard feet scuffling against gravel for a short eternity until the doors swung open, sending in a gust of frigid air. Arthur could see his liberator- or captor, it seemed- taking labored breaths that created a small gust of vapor, the man himself illuminated by the street light apparently overhead.

"Now," The man began, hoisting himself into the van and stepping over Arthur's willowy limbs. "Don't take me for a snob, but I've got to say- we are in a bad neighborhood. So this could be rough."

Before Arthur could respond to the vaguely worrisome statement, a burlap sack found its way over his head.

Undoing the binding of whatever held the pipe that Arthur's cuffs were caught on, he gripped the pipe himself and brought Arthur stumbling onto his knees. The sudden movement sent another shockwave of pain shooting through his skull. "And if you try screaming again, it'll be worse."

The pipe acted like something of a dog leash, leading Arthur in whatever direction his captor wished. He heard the heavy swing of the door and found himself in a warmer albeit muggier space, able to practically taste the filth with every inhale. Without even seeing it, the decay brought back memories that belonged to another lifetime. With it came pain that escaped words, and when the sounds fell from his lips he felt a gloved hand collide with the back of his skull, sending out another yelp.

"Why are you crying? Those lunatics spend their entire lives trying to do what I did for you on a slow weeknight!"

Arthur wasn't sure how to answer, feeling a chorus of strained thoughts rushing through his mind. He wanted to lay down as he'd been doing for years. It was hard to stay upright, not that his disjointed stagger could be considered proper.

"My father walked home like that every night." Despite there being no receptive audience, the man followed up his statement with a disarming laugh. "He'd make it through the door before he just fell out, sort of like," Without warning, the man gripped Arthur by his scrubs and threw him onto the ground. His mostly-bare figure collided with the concrete, making him cry as his skin made contact. Before he knew it, his restrained wrists were being manipulated until they stayed hoisted against something. Something uncomfortably hot, something that set a panic deep inside of Arthur. The sack was carelessly ripped from him, and he could make out yet another dank, dreary room. There weren't any windows save for a few directly below the ceiling, and he had to strain his eyes to see anything.

Arthur could see that his captor was very pleased that he could see.

* * *

The Joker stood in front of a dirty mirror, rubbing a menthol-scented oil into his skin. He shuddered as his fingers lightly grazed the scarred surface. His voice kept to a low hum, low enough to easily hear every happening on the other side of the wall. He wasn't a man to lose himself in thought; his constant guard evaded the need for restful sleep, whatever new pains appeared or whatever passing fancy might've otherwise captivated him. Wherever the switch came from, the Joker was too far gone to turn it off.

His fingers grazed the rusted metals cluttering the counter, searching until he touched a pair of panties haphazardly strewn atop it. He recoiled with a hiss, grabbing the garment and tossing it back towards the bathtub. Underneath like a hidden treasure were the Joker's supplies- not his favorite, but the most appropriate for the occasion. Yanking off the unscrewed lid, he slapped a dollop of white makeup over his face, applying it to his face in rough, streaky strokes. With the white residue remaining, he found a nearly-emptied black can and continued.

When he finished, he smoothed his hands over the lapels of his purple suit. His operation was funded by some of the most generous donors in Gotham, no matter how unwilling. He stood hunched over in his odd sort of posture, staring into his own black eyes on the other side of the mirror. Without warning, he turned to the door and sent it flinging outwards with a forceful kick.

In the darkness he could see the figure in the corner curl in on itself, bringing a smile to his face- one that never really left. His gloved hand felt around for the switch until flicking it on, casting the room in a sterile, fluorescent light. If the Joker grimaced it was difficult to discern through the heavy black makeup.

If Arthur feared him before, now he was terrified.

A steady trickle of dried blood caked down his forehead from a gash buried somewhere beneath his dark curls, tears falling down his cheeks at the same pace as his quick, shallow breaths. Arthur felt something build inside of him, almost like he was slowly learning how it felt to be alive again. He didn't like it.

"Enough of that," The Joker gestured at him. "I went to all that trouble for _you_. Not some," Grimacing, he delivered a soft kick if only to amuse himself with the soft yelp that escaped the smaller man's lips. He fell against the radiator, alternating between sweating and shivering. "Limp pool noodle. I want Arthur Fleck."

Hearing his name brought something of a presence back into Arthur's eyes. Someone knew his name without introduction; that meant he must've been real. A complete stranger knew his name. All of a sudden his demeanor shifted to a silent curiosity as he loosened himself a bit, still bracing himself for another blow.

"My name is Arthur," Arthur spoke quietly, taking in the other man. "What's yours?"

"My name, yes. My name." He spat the last word like venom, bringing an instinctive jump from Arthur. Letting out a pitiful tisk, Arthur's captor lurched over him, black eyes meeting a fearfully inquisitive green. "I'm a twister, you know. I take this world as it is, boring and insufferable, and I twist it. To give it meaning." He smiled wickedly at an irony his audience would never understand. "You see, when you decided to settle into your little hovel, you already changed things. No going back—" He leaned forwards. "They didn't like the establishment, so they fought against it. Then a new one shows up and they just frolic towards it, like sheep to the slaughter." Each phrase seemed to be pronounced with a gesture, only setting Arthur more on edge. "So the mobsters, these little gang-bangers who wanted to rule the world crying about their," He rolled his eyes as he contemplated. "Rules. See, they had a plan for this city. They wanted a _routine_."

The Joker grabbed hold of Arthur's hand as it was restrained by the cuffs, beginning to slowly twist. "So I took their little routine," He continued to twist, slow enough to make every second stretch into hours. "And I twisted it. I took their money, their guns, their goons," He spat. "Their girls, sometimes. If she was into it." A wide grin grew on his face, unnatural. "All of it with nothing. Nothing but a- simple dream. I twisted this city and I bent it over my knee."

Arthur's brows furrowed in pained confusion, unable to process one word before the rest were thrown at him. "You don't have to hurt me. I understand you without—" He grimaced at the other man's grip. "—without all that."

"Really?" He twisted more, until Arthur was certain his wrist would snap. Was everything supposed to remind him of Arkham?

"I don't think you do. You see," He licked his lips. "I did all of that, but I couldn't let them think I was a stranger to this place. God, no— these newcomers are a dime a dozen. I needed to show them I was one of a kind, and so I chose something they were familiar with. Or maybe they chose me."

Speaking between Arthur's pained cries, the Joker allowed a lingering moment of silence to pass until freeing the other man of his vice-like grip. "But no matter what I did, they always, always," As his glare pierced through Arthur, he had to wonder if it was the radiator making him sweat so profusely. "Always had to bring you into it. They started every time with the comparisons and the whinging, expecting the same old routine! Here I was, having to hear story after story about how _you _changed things when I was right there taking the city out from under their noses!"

He licked his lips. "So I started a game. Every time someone brought you up, I shot them. But they kept coming. You were in this city even after they locked you up."

Arthur couldn't keep up, yet one sentiment echoed in his head. People remembered him.

What good had that done?

At the same time, it brought a thrill. A reassurance of his existence, one not limited by the shortcomings of his imagination.

"Here I was, ready to be the enema Gotham deserves. But you just," He let out a laugh. "You just wouldn't get out. Those masks— they were everywhere. _Mocking _me." A disgusted anger infected a tone that had just seconds ago been jovial. So that became my new purpose; to show them all how gone you really were."

"I'm running in every direction, doing more than you ever did," He cleared his throat, keeping himself just above Arthur. "I start to hear these rumors. About a giant bat who shows up just in time, ready to beat everyone to a pulp but never enough to finish them off. At first, you know— these thugs are never bright. They don't know what they're talking about. But I keep hearing about it, no matter how many guys I get rid of. So I get to thinking," Eyeing the dried blood on Arthur's face, he let out a low grumble. "Why don't I find out for myself if this _thing _is real? I did everything I could— I had to kill a _lot _of people. But I found my answer."

Once more he cleared his throat. "So now the mobs are afraid, and it's the cops who want a turn running things. Why not? No one did anything— no one had balls anymore!" He moved slowly forward. "So I took their new order, and I twisted it. I'm taking away their precious shield." His voice lowered. "You're going to help me."

"I can't." Arthur admitted sheepishly. "I'm sorry," His voice was strained as he tried to keep his composure. "I was never supposed to get out of that place. I tried. My entire life—"

His story was ended before it could even begin. Before he could form his next word, he heard a hiss and all of a sudden felt a tight grip on his jaw. He thought it would crack. Worst of all, he felt a frigid cold against the corner of his lips.

"We're going to try this again," Arthur's captor licked his lips for the umpteenth time, all patience gone from his voice. "Now, I don't think you listened to the first story. At all. So we're going to try another one, okay? When I was," He looked as if he was trying to remember. "Younger, I was a lot like you. I was small, skin and bones. But I was always good boy. Kept my head down, looked after my family, did what I could— what little I could— to make things just a little better. I wanted to leave this place better than it was when I wandered into it." He kept the knife against Arthur's lips, feeling the other man tremble beneath the blade. "So I was headed to work one day to do just that. I come across these," He hesitated. "Men. They're big and they're mean, not friendly at all. They ask me what I'm smiling for. They did nothing different than I did, but they were miserable. So they start beating me up real bad and I'm begging them to stop."

Arthur's eyes were huge as the man continued, hot tears pooling against his cool gloves.

"So one of them takes out a knife," The Joker drew in a sharp breath. " Just like this one. The others hold me down and he's carving me up, and he asks me," As the Joker's grip threatened to push down Arthur could feel him trembling. "Why so serious?"

As the Joker went to move, he felt it. Slowly at first, then all at once. A sickly, shaking laugh. It felt strained yet unstoppable, building with an obnoxious moment.

That was enough for the knife to fall, a satisfied smile on the Joker's face as he watched Arthur collapse into a laughing fit.

Standing up, he made his way across the room, broken glass crunching beneath his boots until he reached a metallic panel in the wall. The Joker gave it a good knock and soon it raised, a small array of masked goons waiting in a loose circle.

Arthur strained to see them in the dark and through the blur of tears, although he could vaguely make out figures and masks. He could make out one, so gigantic he'd have to be blind to miss him. Another with honey-colored hair tied in a low ponytail, at least until they turned around and looked like any other masked figure. Another had no distinguishing features, save for the cartoonishly large gun they carried. Several others stood around, and Arthur had to laugh at the absurdity of it all- not that he had a choice at the moment. The old reflex had returned with a vengeance.

Only laughed filled the otherwise deathly quiet space, echoing through the tall ceilings.

"So about my name," The purple figure spoke, turning to look at Arthur once more. "I am _the_ Joker."

Without further regard, the Joker headed into the darkened room.

"Clean him up," The Joker spoke to none in particular, knowing all of them would listen. "It's time we treat our new friend to an early Christmas."


End file.
